Nightwing, (accidental?) Agent of SHIELD
by tolbean
Summary: Dick has tried his BestTM. But when he's openly denied any kind of responsibility (on The Day, too!) by his strict and stupid mentor because 'Sidekicks must earn their place through age and crisis and triumphs blah blah blah we're all dysfunctional orphans'; he decides that Speedy might just have the right idea about going solo. How he ends up working for SHIELD is anyone's guess.
1. Chapter 1

**Tada. I'm back bitches. Better beware, my nerdiness™ has only increased and I am very very ready to supply all the fluff and plot and the jokes.**

 **And the Stucky. Oh boy do I love me the Stucky.**

 **And Tony Stark. He's...he's just so precious? I love him.**

 **And don't even get me started on Dick Grayson i love that boy to pieces oh my god,, and im a very strong advocate for more support in the Romani!Robin corner.**

 **Bless his lil gypsy heart he's about to get absolutely tugged around by these fandoms. Pray for dickie bird y'all he's gonna need it.**

 **Without too much further ado, I present to you::**

 **Chapter One!**

"-we deserve _better_ than this." Roy glares heavily at the three of them, and something very very rotten twists in Dick's chest. And suddenly he's standing up faster than he can control himself, and there's a very heavy, molasses-thick kind of silence in which everyone in the room stares at him. Batman's glare is steady and expectant, and Dick knows that this is the moment where he's expected to raise his hackles and defend the Justice League til his last breath.

But the look Roy gives him is just so...familiar, not in the way that Roy sports that sort of frantic desperation for validation - no, he's too edgy for that - but more along the lines of Dick recognising himself in Roy.

"You're right." Dick says quietly. For all the softness it was said with, from the look everyone's giving him he might as well have just declared intergalactic war. "We do. We do deserve better than this." Roy's mouth twitches in something akin to relief, something a little smug to the twist of his lips, and Dick recalls the many arguments they'd had about Batman and Bruce Wayne and why they were both assholes to Dick Grayson and Robin. Roy'd been passionate that Dick needed to rebel, set part of the house on fire - or better yet, the Batcave - but Dick had never put much faith in Roy's opinion of Bruce. He'd hated having his relationship ('What relationship?! He treats you like you're a Batarang, Dick, if you broke he'd throw you away and find a better one-') picked apart by anyone, but especially by Roy who'd thought that holding back or sugar coating would hurt him more. He was reflecting at least half of Ollie's behaviour onto Bruce, anyway, so it used to be okay to listen through.

But now? Dick thought they'd been making progress. That they'd built up an equal level of trust. That he was finally being seen as less and less of a soldier, and more like a partner and...a son.

"Rob?" Wally whispers, very confused with the goings on, and relying on Dick to fill him in. But Dick just stares at Batman, dares him with his eyes to speak up and put a stop to both of them. If he doesn't say a thing, Dick is turning around and he will not be coming back. He should have listened to Roy sooner. They should have done this sooner.

But Batman's expression doesn't falter. Maybe this is some kind of test to him, and Dick is supposed to use his knowledge in psychology to reel Roy in and have them both sitting at the feet of their respective 'mentors' again like good little sidekicks.

So Dick says nothing. He walks up to Roy, grabs his hand tightly, like he used to do when he was just a freaky dumb orphan kid and Roy was his coolest, nicest, bestest friend in the whole world, and nothing could ever hurt him when he was with Roy.

Roy's hand squeezes back so tightly in relief it's like he's splitting all the weight he'd piled on his shoulders onto Dick through their fingertips.

"Congratulations Arrow, Batman." Roy spits, hair practically static with anger under his yellow hat (which boy, really is dorky). He looks so angry, so untouchable, but here Dick is, and they're holding hands like two little lost boys. Roy's hand - just the one, mind - shakes in his, wether it's with frustration or anxiety is harder to tell. "You've finally succeeded in getting rid of the partners you never wanted in the first place."

 _Ooh. Burn._

Dick's hand is tugged towards Roy, a united front, and there's a small little opening - subtle but obvious at the same time, if that makes any sense - where Roy is offering him a chance to speak up. To rip into Bruce the same way Roy had Ollie.

He stares at the stone, emotionless face of Batman's cowl, the angrily squinted eyes, and it's quite obvious what Dick needs to say.

Nothing.

So they walk out together, alone but free but very aware that they are _alone together_ , no one else to stand up for them except for themselves, and.

For the first time since Haly's, since family, since performing, since happiness, Dick feels like he's _flying_.

Roy doesn't give him long to get his things. The League's top priority is Zoltan, so really they should be tied up with that for a while, but Roy wants them to have a head start in finding their own way.

They go to Gotham first, and Dick feels like a stranger as he sneaks through his bedroom window with an empty new duffle bag in hand. He doesn't take many clothes - on a slim chance they might be recognisable - but he takes as much underwear and socks and toiletry products and his own personal med kits as he can fit into the bottom pocket of his bag. Basically, everything that is confirmed to be untouched by Bat-tracers and chemical trackers is brought with him. He has an emergency stash of cash - 'weekly allowance' Bruce had set up to withdraw $20 from the bank to post through their mail box every week when Dick first moved in (to distract from his horrible traumatic experience and lack of family), that had really never been touched and then forgotten about by Bruce completely - stashed behind his desk in several different wallets, and a few fake ID's that Dick had made by himself...just in case.

After a moment of contemplation, Dick creeps to his closet and opens it. He ignores all the nice clothes hung up, ironed and pressed, on hangers and shelves, and instead pries open a board at the back. Sitting there is a squat, beaten, dusty leather trunk only about the size of Dick's chest and a round little suitcase made of old wood and green canvas. He grabs the small green suitcase first, putting it snug up in one corner of his wide duffle bag, which leaves just enough room for his trunk to fit in before he zips it up.

He thinks about leaving a note on his bed - not for Bruce, but for Alfred, and not to say goodbye (Dick would never dream of saying goodbye to _Alfred_ ), but to thank him. Alfred could've done more for Dick and Bruce's relationship, but he did far from less and Dick is pretty sure the man is a little bit omniscient. He's going to miss that.

There's a buzz at his hip, Roy texting him to hurry up, and the final look Dick takes around his dark, spacious, empty looking bedroom should probably be more sentimental. But it's not. He feels...not much of anything, really. It almost hurts how much he's not going to miss it. Almost.

Roy helps strap his duffle bag onto the back of his bike, and Dick's really glad it's midday and sunny because it just looks like they're going on a trip rather than steeling something, which is what the case would usually be if two kids were strapping a heavy duffle bag to a motorcycle in the dead of night in Gotham.

"Ready to go?" Roy asks, sliding the dark visor of his helmet down over his face, pulling the zip up on his dark leather jacket. Across the street they chose to meet up on - in front of an averagely busy shopping mall - a group of teenagers stare at him and blush and giggle. Roy doesn't spare them a glance, but Dick knows that if they weren't in this kind of urgent rush then he'd show off for them a little bit, maybe even flirt with that girl with the purple hair. But they have places to be. Roy can find someone to flirt with later.

Now, Dick isn't exactly sure where they're going, but he thinks he can assume that it's going to be far away from here. He came to the conclusion about an hour ago that Roy had already planned everything out in case the JL decided to try and pat them on the head and pretend they were doing them a favour for it. He assumes that means that Roy's got some place to live.

Some place to call home.

"Yeah." Dick says, swinging his legs around the bike, arms around Roy's waist.

"Step on it, bitch."

The bike revved.

"I'll step on _you_ , you little shit."

Yeah, home.

They're on the road for a good few hours, driving through Gotham and Blüdhaven and Jersey and part of Manhattan until they end up in a red-brick area of Brooklyn. There are various diners, delis, Mom 'n Pop stores and bistros around, and a couple of apartment buildings with terraces and flower pots. You would never find this kind of domestic charm in Gotham, and Star City was about as flashy as its namesake, bar from the Glades and the factories.

Roy pulls up the bike into the side of a charming old red brick building, perfectly friendly minus the slabs of paste and mortar over what Dick is sure used to be bullet wholes, and they park next to two even more charming old Harley's that they both take a few seconds to drool at. Then Dick decides he'd very much like to stretch his legs, does an areal dismount off the seat, and does some slow backwards walkovers to stretch out the kinks in his back. Roy doesn't bat an eye, and just leans on the bike for a couple of seconds to make sure the kickstand's sturdy. Sometimes it's not very reliable, but it works better in warm weather, so the bike sits pretty and solid as Roy gets off and starts unstrapping their bags. They have one on each side of the rear of the bike for clothes and miscellaneous civilian things, and the black shiny motorcycle case sitting innocently on the tail holds a plethora of weapons, cash, tech, and Kevlar. And knowing Roy, maybe some travel-sized bottles of alcohol and a packet or two of roll up cigarettes.

"Come grab your shit, Dickie."

Halfway through folding himself into a complex pretzel, Dick groans, and languidly flops to the floor and then to his feet. "Got it." He swings the strap diagonally across his chest, and the bag rests easily across his lower back. In each hand, he holds a helmet, and the plastic tag of the bike's key rests in between his teeth. It's around 4:30 in the afternoon, so the weather has cooled marginally, but it's still a little too sunny and warm to have to drag everything inside the foyer of the apartment building by themselves.

The door is, thankfully, a push, so Roy insists that Dick walk in ahead of him and kick the door open gently. There's a blonde lady waiting for them by the mailboxes, a set of keys in her hands and a light jacket on over a pair of nurses scrubs. Despite that, Dick thinks she's definitely no nurse, considering the gun he can tell is strapped to the inside to the back of her jacket. He's not one to jump to paranoid conclusions, though, so he's pretty sure she's just some undercover agent trying to tie up all loose ends to her mission by selling her stakeout apartment to the most innocent new tenants possible: two orphan teenagers with rich, absent foster fathers moving out to live on their own, two trust fund kids with no affiliations to any government or gang.

At some point, Dick is sure that their new living arrangement will one way or another hit the media, and Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen will probably be dragged onto talk shows about why their kids moved out. Gossip columns are going to crazy. Or maybe Bruce will come up with some bullshit story about holidays and trust and independence, and then everyone will just ignore the fact that he and Ollie aren't doing their job properly.

Roy doesn't bat an eye at the fact that he's buying such a suspicious place, or the fact that this lady looks way too relieved that they're taking the apartment off her hands, so Dick just goes with it and assumed Roy did his research. He plasters on his cutest neutral face, smiles at the woman around the keychain in his mouth, and he knows that as soon as she glances at him he has her doubtless and wrapped around his finger. Roy's not one to butter up to people, though, so he just nods in greeting and puts down his duffle to shake her hand.

"Roy Harper, we spoke on the phone?" Roy says, and the woman smiles at him. She has a firm handshake.

"Sharon Carter. You're right on time, I just finished moving my things out to my car." Dick calls bullshit internally, because there is no car outside the building and she would never be loading boxes in medical crocs and and scrubs. People just don't tend to go out in public in their uniform, if they have a choice, and they especially wouldn't go outside in _crocs_.

"The apartment is on the top floor, end of the hall on the right, it's fully furnished - though feel free to replace anything you want - the only thing you can't do is repaint any of the walls, the wallpaper is free reign. There two bedrooms, like you've already been shown-" When did Roy find the time to visit this place? How long had he been looking into moving out? "-and one bathroom. It's not the best view, but you get the best smell; there's a bakery right next to this side of the building and the windows in the apartment are pretty much adjacent to their vent."

Roy nods smoothly, thanks Sharon with a half-smile, and takes the keys as she drops them into his hand. "You said you were paying rent in cash, so every 5th Monday - starting on the first Monday of August - post the envelope to the landlord's mailbox, which is this one here-" She slaps her palm against the bottom right mail slot, a number 1 proudly engraved on it. "-and I've left his email address on the kitchen counter if you needed to contact him directly about any problems." She smiles winningly again when Roy continues to nod, and looks half-subtly down at her watch.

"Any last questions about the place?"

Roy makes a move like he's about to nod again, but then he stops and furrows his eyebrows. Dick knows it's for show. "Yeah, actually - you mentioned that the neighbours were... _high profile_?"

Dick's eyebrows jump to his hairline. Roy definitely has something planned with this suspicious apartment building. And it has something to do with the not-nurse in front of them, and the _high profile_ neighbours.

"Well," Sharon runs a hand through her hair, buying some time, and twists her lips thoughtfully. "Yes, they're high profile. And one of them, I'm required by law to tell you is an ex-convict. We've had some weird people show up to buy this apartment because of them, so you're the first tenant to pass all the security tests. If this puts you off the place, just hand back the keys and I'm sorry for wasting both of our time."

Roy looks pointedly at Dick over his shoulder, so he shrugs loosely. Ex-cons don't scare him, and him and Roy are technically _high profile_ themselves. In two different ways, even. "It's not a problem, I just wanted to make sure we're not going to wake up at 4 am to a bunch of reporters making noise in our hallway."

Sharon grins easily, and with only mild suspicion in her eyes as she gestures at the elevator. "Alright then, if that's all, you can go ahead and start moving in and I'll just leave you be."

Roy, eloquent as ever, smiles and nods, and swings his duffle back over his shoulder and leads Dick into the elevator.

As soon as the doors slide shut, Dick opens his mouth and lets the keys drop to the floor. "What kind of game are you playing with these neighbours?"

Roy glares at him mildly. It's more for show than anything. "Relax, Dickie, nothing dangerous. It's just something to make the League...back off a little."

Dick glares at him with feeling, but they're nearly at their floor, so he kicks the bike keys up with his foot and catches it between his teeth again just as the door opens.

'Nothing dangerous, he says.' Dick thinks to himself as they walk down the hallway. 'That's _so_ going to come back and bite us in the ass.'

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	2. Chapter 2

**Hey my dudes,, thanks for reading this garbage lmao**

 **Pls! Comment! I wanna know what y'all think bc I'm desperate**

 **Thank.**

 **Here's chap two,, introducing my baes, Stucky.**

 **((Vote &comment ))**

The best thing about living with Roy, Dick decides, is that he gets free reign when it comes to how he dresses, how he decorates, and how he trains. At Wayne Manor, Dick hadn't even realised quite how restricted he felt about being himself, but now here he is: his cousin's old circus unitard (a pretty mix of blue and black) on under ripped denim shorts with a million badges and patches sewn on to keep it together, his gold complexion completely washed of any Secret-Identity-Keeping-Required-Ethnicity-Hiding skin dye, black hair free of styling and fluffy and wavy, his old anklets stacked on his bare feet, _and_ Roy's helping him pin up all his old posters and drawings and photographs that had been tucked away in his trunk for the past 4 years. His bedroom at Wayne Manor had been too big to put everything up, he'd been too aware of the empty extra space, but his new bedroom is about 3/4 the size of his old trailer - still big by his standards, but wonderfully average by non-nomads and so homely that Dick just can't seem to stop grinning.

It's almost a shock, to engulf his circus roots so strongly and all at once again, but Roy's encouragement is obvious and they really do need something to fill the time while they put off going grocery shopping. Dick can't cook to save his life, unfortunately, but Roy's pretty decent, though very reluctant to make anything with too much effort required. They're probably going to order pizza. They just want to pretend that they have another option that they're considering.

"Annnnnnnd..." Roy tacks the final corner of a Polaroid down to the wall, and then flops onto Dick's bed, stretching his arms over his head. "Done."

Dick grins around the pin in his mouth, taking it out and securing his last poster - one promoting Haly's Circus International Tour of 2006 - in place. He flops back onto the bed, too, landing right next to Roy. "Thanks for the help, tough guy."

Roy snorts. "Yeah, don't tell Wally I was useful in anyway. I need to keep my reputation in tact."

Though the mention of Wally made Dick feel the smallest pang of guilt, Dick sniggered. "What reputation? Roy, everyone knows you're a closet sap."

Roy props himself up on his elbows and glares at him. "This is how you thank me for slaving away for an hour? Unbelievable."

Dick props himself up as well. "I thought I was thanking you by not letting you walk out on Ollie by yourself, _Speedy_."

Roy squints at him. "You weren't doing me a _favour_ , Dick, or you'd have gone back to B by now. You're just as tired of the sidekick shtick as I am."

Dick shrugs, but doesn't answer. He's not quite sure him and Roy are actually on the same level of anti-sidekick, but he really is tired of being the one to carry his and Bruce's relationship. The man is at his most functioning as Batman, which is really saying something, and Dick's tired of... _that_. It's less about Robin and Batman - at least then he can rely on Batman to _be_ there. No, his problems with Bruce relies solely in how Dick is never not _Robin_ to the man. How he's never just Dick Grayson. Robin will always come before Dick Grayson, and it's the sentiment and psychology behind that that makes him think a break from it is good - if not to make Bruce really think about things, then to give Dick a break from all the expectations piled upon his shoulders. He's just not sure how long that break is going to be...but he thinks it's probably going to be long enough to make himself comfy in Roy's apartment.

Roy's squint softens, but his mouth quirks frustratedly. "And don't call me _Speedy_. Speedy's Green Arrow's sidekick, I don't want to be _Speedy_ anymore."

Dick hasn't even thought that much about how they're going to continue Vigilante-ing separate from their mentors, but suddenly he realises that he's got to leave _Robin_ behind. The thought is almost overwhelming until he looks down, down at the blue bird stretched across the black material on his chest, and he realises that doing it over again isn't that much of a bad thing. He's got somewhere to start, at least.

"You can't change your name until you change your uniform, though." Dick points out. They probably won't be patrolling tonight, but a day isn't long enough to construct a new Kevlar suit. Kevlar is...kind of a bitch, to be honest. It takes very strong needles and a certain type of thread to sew, and even stronger fingers. Sometimes a welding torch is necessary. That's why Dick's stuff is usually only Kevlar in certain places - over his pecs, his stomach, his knees, shins and inner thighs, and the small of his back. But that's when he has more than a couple of Robin costumes, and he's pretty sure that making only two new uniforms from scratch is going to take a couple of weeks. Or maybe days, if he has nothing better to do.

"I'm ditching the hat, though."

"Thank god, even I thought the hat was stupid, and I used to wear a leotard and pixie boots for training."

"What? No! The pixie boots were adorable."

"I looked like Peter Pan, Roy."

"You were 9, it was completely acceptable. I was 14 and I looked like a squire from the Middle Ages. I still do! Almost 4 years and I never even ditched the hat!"

"True. That's just embarrassing."

They lie there, talking, for at least an hour until there's a knock at the door. Dick's on his feet immediately, but Roy's already making his way through the living before he can blink, and Dick's pretty certain that this is something to do with the 'high profile' neighbours.

He hears the door open, and takes a minute to tug on a sweatshirt - his Gotham Academy Gymnastics hoodie, to be precise - and contemplates tugging on a pair of socks when Roy's voice echoes back through the apartment. "Hey, Grayson! Come meet the neighbours!"

Dick rolls his eyes, abandons the Superman socks he was about to pull over his cold feet, and skulks through the very empty living room to the front door where Roy is partially obstructing two tall, buff figures. The redhead is casually leaning a little on the frame, chatting and smiling to the pair, and Dick frowns at his back as he walks up.

"Your little brother?" A slightly out-of-use Brooklyn accent drawls, half warm and half not. Dick leans around Roy as he gets close enough to look at a man with short, messy brown hair, a clean shaven face, dog tags dangling nonplussed over a grey t-shirt, and-...holy shit...

...a metal arm.

Roy's devious expression filters through Dick's brain suddenly, and Dick's fingers twitch as he refrains from jumping on the redhead's back and straight-out _strangling_ him, because moving into the apartment across from Captain America and the (allegedly, apparently) reformed Winter Soldier is nothing short of clinically insanely bitter and resentful.

And okay, Dick maybe thinks it's hilarious.

"Kind of," Roy answers vaguely, blasé, and Dick inserts himself underneath one of Roy's arms, leaning against the taller's side. He smiles politely at the two 20-something looking 90-somethings, and keeps his mischievous cackle internal as both's eyes immediately crack with newborn fondness, though one pair more obvious than the other.

"I'm Dick, it's very nice to meet you," And boy, it's oddly refreshing that there's absolutely no new-age fumble over his nickname. Of all things, the two Avengers seem to emit the smallest air of warm nostalgia at an old-fashioned nickname.

"Steve, and it's very nice to meet you too, Dick," Captain America, dressed in very civilian blue jeans and red t-shirt, introduces himself with an amused grin. Next to him, the Winter Soldier does the same, bar the grin. His eyes aren't hostile, at least. "Bucky." And boy, he really does look just like the man in Dick's history books and class documentaries, if not a little bit colder and slower to smile. And he probably had like three guns and a couple of knives on him at all times, but still. Not quite as intimidating as he used to be. Dick had seen the footage.

"So it's just you two living here?" Steve asked, all nice and polite and gentlemanly, but also far from intrusive.

Roy responds before Dick can get a word in otherwise. "Just us." It sounds slightly defensive, like a lot of things about Roy tends to be, and Dick can practically see the Captain jot down a little mental reminder of the topic to avoid in polite bump-into-each-other-on-the-elevator situations. Barnes, however, just squints thoughtfully.

"How old are you both?" He asks, and Dick smirks a little at the deadpan side-eye that Captain America - the apparent epitome of wholesomeness - directs at his companion. Proof that despite America's collective imaginations, the consensus that Steve Rogers is the epitome of pure isn't quite as spot on as most people think. Dick recognises a Bitch Face when he sees one, okay?

Roy tenses slightly, but doesn't seem too offended. _It's a miracle_. "I'm 18." Slight lie - he's got another couple months until the big one-eight, but it's better not to risk it. "Dick's 13, but he acts like an 8 year old-"

"C'mon, Roy, that's like the _same thing_ -"

Roy silences him by pinching the end of his nose, which is always surprisingly affective. The two Avengers trade bemused looks, and Barnes even cracks half a smile. Roy smiles smoothly, as though he didn't just indulge in a petty argument.

"We'd invite you in, but we don't have any food, cutlery, plates or a TV. So." Roy, ever the conversationalist, manages to make that sentence sound charming.

"We've been out of town for a while, actually, so our apartment's kinda bare. But we wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood, so maybe we can show you around the area tomorrow?" Captain America suggests, to which Roy of course agrees with, because you don't turn down _Captain America_ when he's offering...anything. (Unless it's sex. Then it's all about consent, but whatever, that's kind of irrelevant to this topic of conversation.)

Before they shut the door, Dick really can't help himself from blurting out one question. He's been holding it in since he met them.

"So if I can't open a jar can I just come over and ask one of you guys to do it? Or is that insensitive?"

There's a short, confused silence, immediately followed by two chuckles and an exasperated sigh from Roy - who's probably regretting letting Dick crash at his apartment, but whatever, Roy would forget to look after himself completely if it weren't for Dick - and then Captain America is ruffling his hair and there's a very giddy little bit of Superman-worthy hero-awe that bursts in his chest.

"Definitely. Anyway," Rogers withdraws his hand, and gestures with his thumb over his shoulder a little bit awkwardly, bless, "See you boys around."

Barnes grunts a goodbye, and seems to think that's the end of their interaction, so just walks back into the adjacent apartment. The Captain just rolls his eyes a little bit, glances at his watch like marking the time of the end of the conversation is important. It probably is, who knows, maybe this is a record for inane conversation and niceties with a reforming Bucky Barnes. Dick won't judge. It's a good idea. He should start timing Bruce, too.

"Thanks!" Roy says - a little dryly, because that's the kind of douche he is - as he shuts the door, and in about a split second after the door shuts, Dick has him flipped on his back, kneeling on his chest, and two hands at his throat.

"You're playing a very petty and dangerous game, Harper. Captain America and the Winter Soldier? You know the JL is gonna see this as treason."

Despite the very real threat that looms above him, Roy just smirks. "But it's kinda funny, though."

Dick glares fearsomely for a few seconds, but can't quite keep up his anger. He rolls off Roy, pouting. "You could have told me sooner."

"Nah," Roy grins. He's such an asshole, Dick wonders why anyone thought introducing them as kids would ever possibly be a good idea.

"Where's the fun in that?"

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	3. Chapter 3

**Bonjourrrrrrrr my dudes**

 **I just watched Wonder Woman and,, my friends, it hath shooken me. I'm just-**

 **I can't. I cried? Like it was** _ **so perfect!1!1!1!1**_

 **Gal Gadot is so beautiful? Like - and she's so badass? I'm so proud of dc for hiring her! ((Fanboying ahead beware:: did u know she was Miss Israel for a while? And that she served in the Israeli military? And that she was shooting WW whilst she was 5 months pregnant? I'm just -?)))**

 **And Chris Pine my boiiiiii,, he's an awesome Jim T Kirk and he was a goddam well-written and perfectly-portrayed (literally so canonically accurate? did they make him in a lab?)) Steve Trevor and I? Can't help it. I love him too. Ack.**

 **But ANYWAY, this story::**

Dick's shitty morning hadn't really starting _in the morning_ ; but rather pre-dawn and post-paralytic nightmare that's heavy, dark weight was still crawling around his mind like black widow spiders.

A bad wake up like this is usually a sign of... _some kind_ of indiscernible danger looming, and there's a stirring in his gut that makes Dick want to hide in his training suit with the bulletproof fibre and then strap several weapons all over his body. He limits himself to just the armoured black undershirt, and only a few thin knives stuck to his thighs. His brain feels itchy. So does his skin. The cold, numbing shower he'd taken after he'd crawled out of bed hadn't aided in clearing any kind of fear and paranoia lingering from his night terror, which leads him to sitting at the kitchen counter table and staring into a bowl of cereal for about 4 hours until Roy (fully dressed and wide awake, looking exhilarated from his first night of sleep in his new apartment, in his new independence) walks into the open kitchen and living area at around 8am.

He takes a single look at the blank, brooding expression on Dick's face, the now-crippled spoon clutched in a warm fist, and the bowl of mushy and pigment-less, flavourless cereal, and sighs. A big, heaving, exasperated sigh.

A hand swipes the bowl away from under Dick's glare, unflinching when the spoon is stabbed into the wooden counter top with such force that it sticks like a knife and stands upright. "If you're done with _looking_ at food, we should go and _eat_ some. We only have cereal, milk, bread and ham and unless you want a ham and frosted flakes sandwich; we need to go grocery shopping."

Dick blinks, and lets the tension bottled up in his body snap out of him as he stretches his arms over his head. The breath he takes, then, feels like the first wisp of fresh air he'd consumed morning. "Can we have bacon and eggs?" If his throat sounds hoarser than normal, Roy either doesn't notice, doesn't mention it, or just doesn't care.

"Can you cook bacon and eggs?"

"No."

"Then there's your fucking answer, Dickwad, so no, we're buying toaster waffles." Roy grabs the apartment key of the counter and slides it into a pocket of his wallet. He then stares expectantly until Dick goes looking for a pair of shoes, and by the time Dick returns (victoriously, with some Superman converse, which will never stop being hilarious) Roy has already opened the door and his footsteps are bouncing down the hallway and into the apartment.

"Harper, slow down!" Dick skids out of the apartment, shutting the door as he goes, and unfortunately colliding with a broad chest on the way.

"Woah!" Exclaims Rogers - who had apparently just started walking out of his own apartment - as Dick bounces off his chest, falling to the ground. Behind the blond, stands an expressionless Bucky Barnes in a suspiciously heavy leather jacket. From his sprawled and slightly dazed position on the floor, Dick deduces that the man is hoarding a small weapons cache on his body.

Maybe Dick wasn't the only one to have a rough night?

"Really, Grayson," And exasperated Roy Harper huffs from the other end of the hallway, quickly turning around to walk back towards the three unlikely neighbours. "You'd think you, of all people, would be a little more graceful than this."

Dick snarks something crude and mouth+soap worthy back in Vlax Romani under his breath, and twists himself upwards until he's sitting crosslegged. Rogers just stares hopelessly for a moment until his manners kick in and he's extending both hands down towards Dick to help him up. Gratefully, Dick clasps on for just a moment - prolonged contact with a national treasure seems blasphemous, for some reason, akin to making paper aeroplanes out of a Bible - and propels himself back up. Roy announces his presence by running both of his hands through the back of Dick's hair, almost making him startle, to check for any lumps or cuts. (He's fine, of course. His skull's kind of thick. He's hit enough times - or rather, other people have hit it enough times - for him to know that it'd take more than a tumble to the floor to concuss him.)

"I'm not a cat, Roy." Dick huffs as he pats down his ass from any dust from the floor. "I don't _always_ land on my feet."

"Right," Roy says dryly, "sometimes it's your _hands_."

"You okay there, son?" Captain Rogers asks, as typically gentlemanly as is expected, and Dick bottles up his inner fanboy before he gets too excited at being in Captain America's presence. It's more than just a history-book/comic-book/documentary-born admiration Dick has for this man, it's a personal and very treasured _respect_. This man had saved countless hundreds of Dick's people from Nazi Camps and Nazi Slavery, and considering that almost 1/4 of Romani people were unforgivably (but apparently not all the unforgettably, according to every history lesson Dick's had in America), every fucking one of them counted.

And now he's just been absolutely steamrollered by the man, and boy if it isn't the best day of his life.

"Nothing's broken or bleeding, so that's good."

Both men look slightly wary at Dick's not-so-assurance. Roy huffs at him, and says for him, "He's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Alright, then." Rogers is sceptic, Barnes looks like he wants to crawl out of his own skin (and boy, has Dick been there before), Roy seems pleased with their progressing neighbourly relationship, and Dick just wants to go and stock their damn fridge.

"Hey, so, do either of you know where the nearest grocery store is?" Roy asks them, which has Dick a little suspicious, because he's pretty sure Roy knows where everything is in this neighbourhood. But he also really _wouldn't_ mind having these guys show them around, even if Rogers is a little awkward in person and Barnes is obviously not quite reformed to the point which most people would consider socially and morally acceptable. This is more for Roy than it is for Dick, because Roy's been his best friend for years now and Dick knows that he _needs_ to show Ollie that he can be independent. Do things for himself. That he's _not a kid anymore, damnit!_

If he's honest...Dick doesn't really know what compelled him to leave the Justice League's fake HQ (which, well, he'd been aware of but had still felt slighted that the four of them weren't treated with same respect as minor Leaguers) in the first place. Maybe it was a knee jerk reaction, maybe it was something that had been festering inside of him without his knowledge, but Dick is pretty sure that he's not going invest any time in trying to 'stick it' to Bruce. He wants to teach Bruce a lesson, for once; that Dick isn't going to go and try to raise himself, and then sit quietly and pretend it's Bruce's who's been doing the good job.

It's too late to get Ollie involved with Roy, the animosity is too deep and Roy's just too old for it to have any much of an affect. But Dick is 13, and Bruce was still very young when he'd taken him in, so this is the time for Bruce to decide if he's going to get over whatever aversion to normal parenting he has, or if he's just going to sit on his hands and make his disapproval known in petty ways.

At the moment, Dick is pretty sure it could go either way. He's not that masochistic as to wait around under Batman's thumb until everything comes to a head, so what's the harm in buddying up a little with some Avengers? (Rhetorical questions tend to lead to complications, in Dick's experience, but he's gonna say 'screw it' for now and just deal with the consequences later. Like a normal kid.)

"Yes, we do. We were just heading there ourselves, it's only like 10 minutes by foot."

"Do you mind if we tag along?" Roy asks a little reluctantly, obviously preferring independence even in the little things but also not an antisocial jerk. Well. Not _too much_ of an antisocial jerk.

"Fine with me." Rogers says kindly. He's a kind man, it's easy to tell, but Dick also knows there's much more to any man than just kindness. Especially Captain America. "Buck?"

Barnes' eyes - gunmetal gray, sharp like the scope of a sniper rifle, a little bit frosty 'round the edges - swoop over Roy almost like an assessment. It takes barely a second before he does the same quick overlook of Dick, though his gaze lingers on Dick's neck, for some reason. (He'll realise, later, is that whilst his sweatshirt before had covered as he tended pick the neck until it frayed all over his skin; there's a burn on his throat - under his jugular, easy to hide with the make up he'd not used that morning - in the distinctive shape of the barrel of a smoking gun, that his shirt and undershirt doesn't cover. It's probably the only reason Barnes doesn't turn back to his apartment and leave them in awkward silence like he obviously wants to - he's curious, now.)

"It's 8 minutes if we cut through the alley next to Maxwin's Pub."

And on the Sergeant's hoarse and unofficial prompt, the four of them set off for the staircase, and Dick realises not even a quarter of the way down that Roy's plan might be fun. It might be cool, getting to know two guys in their 20's _that had been born in the 20's,_ and it might be refreshing to not be surrounding by JL-approved company.

It might be fun, and it will definitely be somewhat of a tragedy.

And Dick is the embodiment of a fun tragedy, so. _Bring it on._

 **Here we go! Soz it's taken a bit, this time of year is stressful for us Brit's ((who are still in school in July, FYI))**

 **Review! Fave! Follow! DM me if you need! Thank you for reading ilysm**


	4. Chapter 4

**Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh**

 **Everyone** _ **neeeeeds**_ **to go and watch Baby Driver**

 **So. Good.**

 **Edgar Wright I'm so glad you're British we've done** _ **something**_ **right this year. Thank you.**

 **Anyway! Have some more of this useless story ahahah**

 **Here's some of my fav bois going on a domestic adventure!**

 **And Tony kind of makes an appearance! Yay!**

Brooklyn is much nicer than Gotham. It's an easily recognised fact that just about every major (and minor!) city in North America is nicer than Gotham - apart from maybe Blüdhaven, which might as well be its own angsty universe - but it's still weird for Dick to see proof of that with his own two eyes.

Their apartment building is in an old fashioned chunk of Brooklyn, and not the gothic granite and limestone kind of old fashioned either, but a red-brick, terraced windows, painted-on advertisements kind of old fashioned. It's pleasing to the eye, muted and warm and slightly industrial, and Dick trails the tips of his fingers against the apartment building as they walk out and feels a spark of familiarity shoot down his nerve endings. Maybe it's something to do with the little clay flower pots everywhere, or the washing lines hung up, or moms and dads walking hand in hand with their toddlers with the sticky cheeks, but Dick feels a kinship with this street block. He's reminded of oil stoves in a rickety caravan, of the smell of his aunt's simmering stew, of the whistling kettle making the hot water for his dad's coffee, of dipping light bulbs in coloured ink with his cousin and making their corner of the caravan into a magical Peter Pan-worthy den, of running across dirt roads barefoot with a stick in one hand like a sword and a broken compass in the other like a pirate.

And strangely, it doesn't hurt to think about. It tastes more like copper than iron in his mouth; sharper and warmer than blood. Dick's almost certain that he'd forgotten that he'd even remembered all of those little things...but hey, it's the little things that tend to stick with you, right?

( _And the bodies. Dick will never forget the bodies_.)

Brooklyn is artsy and eclectic and running on it's own time, and Dick wonders how he's ever supposed to go back to Gotham after getting a glimpse of this freedom. Maybe he'll like it a little less after bumping into a horde of hipsters, but for now it's just about the most perfect place he's stepped foot in for the last five years.

"Were you already local before you moved here?" Captain Rogers asks them - well, asks Roy, because Dick had an idea about a block back to drag the sharp end of their apartment keys gently against all the old buildings they walk past, and red and brown dust floats across his hand like rust. Barnes is almost as absorbed with the action as Dick is, but his focus is more on the key than it is the brick residue.

"I'm from Star City, actually." Says Roy plainly. Dick doesn't say he's a Gotham boy, even though his run-of-the-mill Gotham accent (which is not the same as a freaking _Jersey_ accent, okay? However said that was an idiot) probably speaks for itself. He'd learnt most of his English in Gotham...there was no escaping the accent.

"Dick, you don't sound like a Star City kid," Rogers says over his shoulder. "Where are you from?" Dick stops dragging the keys against the walls as they take a corner, and chucks them back to Roy's open palm when he gets a dirty look from the redhead for scratching them. Wide eyed, he blinks, and stuffs his hands into his pockets.

"Where am I from? Uh...a lot of places." Rogers nods like he already guessed something like that. "For the last four-five years I've grown up in Gotham, though."

There's a noise behind him from Barnes, which Dick realises is a sort-of chuffing sound, and then a voice. "You couldn't tell, Stevie?" ( _The history books never talked about the nicknames oh my god I can't handle this-_ )

"Well," Rogers ( _Stevie!_ ) drawls, with a little bit of spunk. "I'm _so sorry_ I'm not able to tell the difference between Jersey and Jersey-Adjacent, Buck." ( _Buck! That's a nickname of a nickname!_ )

"Hey now," Dick interjects. They duck into what is apparently a shortcut next to an old but well-maintained British-style pub, and Dick trusts Roy enough to have his back that he turns around to walk backwards so he can face both of the broad-and-built Super Soldiers that they've made acquaintances of. God, what even is his life anymore? "Referring to Gotham as _only_ 'Jersey-Adjacent' is an _insult_."

"To Jersey," Roy mumbles. Rogers chuckles as Dick sharply turns and launches himself on Roy's back with an indignant yelp. Roy, who doesn't even stumble, hooks his hands under the crook of Dick's knees and turns his _very intimidating_ _sneak attack_ into a cute little piggy back ride.

"How dare you," Dick pouts. He hooks his chin over Roy's shoulder, and throws his arms loosely under the archer's neck.

"Left here." Rogers directs.

A grocery store is directly across the road from them. There are small crates of fruit and veggies stacked outside which - according to the signs - are free for taking. Efficient, nice way to get rid of food that's going off. The road is quiet for 8:30 on a weekday morning, but maybe this side of Brooklyn isn't as busy over summer. Dick, who's used to the constant traffic and car-honking of Gotham streets, finds it...disturbingly tranquil.

Roy lets go of his legs once they hit the curb on the other side of the street, and Dick heaves a sigh that Roy could probably physically _feel._ He doesn't unhook his legs, and stubbornly burrows further into Roy's neck.

"Dick, get off." His arms are tugged away from Roy's neck, and Dick goes with them, drooping upside down against the back of Roy's body until his hands are limply dangling against Roy's calves. From his upside-down vantage point, he sees Barnes and Rogers share mildly bewildered (and vey amused) looks. He grins at them cheekily.

"I'll step on your fingers." Roy grits out. Dick knows he's not really that bothered by his koala-like tendency to latch onto people taller and wider than him, but when there's a teenager plastered over your back for an extended period of time, anyone would be a little fed up. And Roy has less patience than most people. Especially with affection. He loves it secretly, Dick knows, Roy loves and craves hugs and hair ruffles and hand-holding and shoulder-pats, but he doesn't like how _showing_ affection. He says it makes him feel itchy, which ironically, is the way Dick feels when he's _not_ being affectionate.

When he was younger, and still a little too scared of the man to hug Bruce, he'd take at least three warm showers every day with the water pressure all the way up to imitate fingers drumming against his skin. Sometimes it left little bruises and lots of red skin, but it was the only thing that seemed to help.

Dangling upside down, Dick's thoughts stray for just a second to how safe and warm he always felt when Bruce wrapped an arm around his shoulder, rubbed his knuckles across Dick's head, chucked him lightly on the chin with a gentle fist, let him sink into his side on nights where he had nightmares so specific he could phantom-taste blood in his mouth and the felt the ghostly feeling of blunt objects knocking his ribs into his lungs.

Roy mercilessly slaps his feet off from his waist, and Dick drops hurriedly into a handstand with a mischievous laugh as Roy struts off further into the grocery store. He takes a few steps on his hands before bending his legs over until they're touching the ground, looking a little bit like he was going to crab walk around the place, and then rises up fluidly to an upright, vertical, position.

"Are all kids this bendy nowadays?" Sergeant Barnes speaks up for what Dick thinks is for about the 2nd time that day, good for him, white a very flat expression. Somehow, though, Dick knows that Barnes is joking. "Because I've been consistently informed that your generation is-"

"A bunch of lazy, self-righteous, rebellious and tech-obsessed brats?" Dick finishes for him. "Oh yeah, definitely." Dick grabs a small bag of pre-chopped carrots and a few whole onions to put in their basket as Roy browses for a bag of mixed vegetables that required the least amount of prep. Behind him, Barnes emits a rather patronising hum.

"So you're just a special case, then?"

Dick grins. "Not special. Just a circus brat."

Barnes' answering smile is rigid but amused. "'Course you are."

Somehow, within the short minute or so that Dick had been loitering by the vegetables with the Sergeant, Roy had wondered further into the grocery store with the other off-duty Avenger. Dick caught a flash of russet hair turning the corner with another basket in hand filled solely with multiple brightly coloured boxes.

Good, so Roy remembered Dick's culinary range extended from pb+j to cereal.

But he also caught something else in his peripheral vision.

"Hey, so do CCTV cameras usually follow wherever you or your boy go? Or should I worry about being stalked every time we run out of milk?"

Barnes' eyes don't move from where he's tracking the prices of several different types of potatoes. His hands slide casually into his jacket pockets; he's the perfect picture of an unaware civilian.

Except Dick can see the outline of a browning handgun behind the leather on Barnes' right hand side, knows the way the man's body turns toward the parsnips is to shield Dick's body and face from the camera in the corner of the grocer's.

"The government _said_ they'd stopped 'observing' me two months ago." Barnes shifted his weight to be able to talk to Dick face to face but keep the cameras at the corner of his vision.

"When did they really stop?" Dick asks, stuffing his hands in his jeans, fingering the the hilt of a sheathed throwing knife strapped to his upper thigh through a thin tear in the lining of his pocket.

"Two weeks ago. Which means whoever's watching us now isn't them, and not it's not HYDRA."

"How can you tell?" Dick asks, though he can already predict the answer.

"They wouldn't be this arrogant." _They'd have sniped us both already if they had a clear visual,_ goes unheard between them on a wavelength Dick is supposed to be too naïve to pick up.

"Who do you know that's this arrogant, then?"

As if waiting for this particular cue, Barnes' phone goes off in his jeans pocket. A personalised ringtone of what Dick is pretty sure is Black Sabbath blares almost unreasonably loudly until Barnes, with a sharp annoyance and dull relief, places a touch-screen phone to his ear.

"Why are you stalking me?" Is ground out before the person on the other line can get a word in edgewise.

" _When did you and Cap acquire a clone of yourselves, Barnes? Was it HYDRA? Did they fuse your DNA? The little one looks more like you than Rogers though - is there a tiny patriot clone locked in a capsule somewhere waiting to bust out and fight for the free world? Oh! Is the ginger Nat's and yours? Bet he's a fucking nightmare to get along with. Looks kinda grumpy. Have you adopted them legally or are they just following you around like little puppies? And why am I only finding out about it now?"_

The voice on the phone was so loud that Dick could hear it clearly from where he was standing. Barnes' anger seemed to increase with every invasive question and wildly misappropriate conspiracy. His jaw jutted out in barely restrained fury. "Stark, _shut up_."

" _What, did I hit a nerve? Just tell me what the fuck you're doing with a bunch of teenagers before I call our mutual pain in the ass, General Ross, and inform him that you're corrupting children or; maybe, I'll ring up CPS to tell them that the worlds most dangerous assassin has kidnapped two kids."_

Dick feels irritation bubble in his gut. Without thinking, he snatches the phone from Barnes with deft hands. I'm just enough time, too, because it looked like the thing was about to crack in two. "First of all, Tiny Stork or whatever the hell your name is," _(Dick knows exactly what his name is because Bruce has about 20 gigabytes worth of files on this dumb, self sacrificing, Avenger asshole, but the indignant noise that comes from the other side of the line is gloriously rewarding.)_ "If these low-resolution cameras you've _illegally_ hacked into to _stalk a minor_ has enough colour available for you to pick up auburn hair, you've definitely got enough pigment to see that I'm no Brooklyn-scion, American-flag-waving white boy, so if you insinuate that I'm the genetic bastard of the two whitest men in America, you must not know how basic biology works. And here I've been told you're a scientist."

" _Keep going, oh my god_ ," Whispers Barnes hoarsely, hands clenched but his grin toothy and eyes wide in raw amusement and Dick wonders if this is first time the man's found anything genuinely comical without underlying bitterness since he'd recovered. But then he realises how arrogant that sounds, and concludes that maybe Tony Stark is a man that doesn't often get talked down to by children, and that Barnes is probably going to be quoting this for the rest of his life. Dick shares the man's grin mischievously as he listens to one of the smartest men alive fumble for a witty response. He seems a little thrown off his game after having the small, peppy child that had bounced into the grocers rip into him so ferociously.

"And second of all, I have not been _kidnapped_. If I was, I'm pretty sure these two _stealth-trained government operatives_ would be a little more discreet about it." Barnes raised his clenched (flesh) fist to his mouth to bite down a chuckle. He looked more like a human being than Dick had seen of him so far.

" _Who even are you?_ " Stark asked, finally. He sounded disgusted that Dick even existed. It was awesome.

"I'm their neighbour."

" _So that's one question answered, but I'm looking for a name, kid. Who are you?_ "

"You don't already know? Wow. I'm kind of insulted, actually."

" _I'm sorry, am I supposed to know the name of every brat born in Brooklyn?_ "

"Of course not."

" _Exactly._ "

"I was born in France, not Brooklyn."

"... _look, kid. I'll admit you got me. Tiny Stork, I'm not living that down for a while, I can see Barnes' smug face through these cameras. Touché or whatever, go ahead and tweet all about it. Just keep in mind that your neighbours are involved with dangerous, world-ending kind of things and don't -_ don't _\- get yourself involved because of some weird hero-worship or whatever. Being a 'superhero' sounds cool until it gets kids like you killed._ "

"Don't worry about my brother and I, Mr Stark." Dick smiled innocently up at the camera still trained on them.

"We'd never get ourselves involved in _superheroes_."

 **Lolllllllllll here u go. After like a month. Ahah ahh I've been a busy bee, bc unlike u American scum ghosting through this fic (that's right I know what u r doing), us brits only have six weeks of summer hols and we spend it doing useless shit everyday. I've been busy with family+friends outings like every day until today ((which is just a barbecue with my faves, Mémé and Gaga (my adorable French grandmother - who is thE BEST - and my grandpa, who's also the best) in our rare warm+sunny weather (you'd think the change of seasons would make it a little sunnier but noPE))) but I've managed to throw this together to tide you guys over. I'm off to Spain next week for 2 weeks (feck yeah bodyboarding + ugly tan lines here I come)) so I might manage to write something there on in the afternoons (bc it's too hot to go outside at 1-4 where we're going) so until then!**

 **Here you go. Plz comment and other stuffs!**

 **((Also if anyone cared the ringtone was 'Iron Man' by Black Sabbath, obviously, and Bucky did not get a choice in it))**


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